Island
by Salsa like Salome
Summary: At some point, Peter Pan grew up. But it was not a simple matter, for very few things can ensnare eternal youth. What made Peter Pan stay with his Wendy? And what of Rufio, the boy who would replace him? UPDATE: Chapter FIFTEEN is up! Review!
1. Nightmare

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Summary: A story that bridges the gap of time between the events of Peter Pan and Hook. However, I have kept Wendy. Moira would not do.  
  
'O, Peter, don't waste your fairy dust on me.'  
  
Wendy's voice was different. There were weights on the edges of her words, a somber dust that clung to a once laughing tongue. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, but the room was cold.  
  
Peter could not see her face. Her back was to him, her seated form lit by a muted halo of firelight. The fickle glow softened her edges, but doubt had stolen Peter's heart the moment he heard her voice. He stood - frozen - time pressing her rigid fingers against his ribcage.  
  
The scene had played in his head as he flew, and his heart had jigged in rehearsal. His smile was dauntless, and he could hear the chorus of 'It is time, Wendy!' in his own voice. The girl would rise, and he would take her hand and take her back where all was one great day and night.  
  
But the room was quiet, and the beds were empty, and she was seated before the flame, with soft edges and a tired voice. Peter did not smile and did not speak, and Wendy did not rise. She turned to him now, her features hidden by the dark. Perhaps he squinted, in spite of himself, for her hand reached for the gaslight.  
  
Peter went cold. Terror gripped him then, creeping through his limbs and onto his face. He did not know what was happening, why he could not move and could not breathe and could not feel anything but ice. For Peter Pan had never been afraid, and all at once he thought he might be dying. He cried out.  
  
'Don't turn up the light!'  
  
A Lost Boy sat up, blinking drowsily. His mouth opened to issue a tangled protest, but a hand pushed him back down into the blankets and into sleep. There was one pair of waking eyes, watching the source of the Lost Boy's disturbance.  
  
Peter Pan was writhing in his kingly bed, his legs caught in a serpent's coil of furs and blankets. Drenched in a combination of sweat and tears, he yelled only once. It startled even his watcher, who had grown accustomed to incoherent mumbles. The boy pawed at his pillow, clutching it to his chest, murmuring what sounded like 'Wendy, Wendy,' into the soft fur.  
  
Rufio turned from the sight and exited the tree. If a Lost Boy woke, he would not be there to prevent them from seeing. But Pan would not remember the dream tomorrow.  
  
The air was still, and even the stars slept. In the distance music bled from the hull of the Jolly Roger, a one handed playing punctuated by metallic trills. Rufio was sitting on the beach when he heard the melancholy baritone that sang to its own accompaniment. Hook had taken back his ship some time ago, but nights that had been silent with plotting were now steeped in his mournful songs. Peter would dream again tomorrow, and Hook would play and Rufio would not sleep. A name would taint the wind of Neverland, and the cold would be loath to fade in a morning it used to run from.  
  
They say that Neverland can be very frightening indeed. But as the contents of Peter's nightmares began to leak into his waking thought, the horror of the sprawling jungles crept past the bounds of a child's tolerance.  
  
Neverland was teetering.  
  
Worlds away, Wendy Darling's fingers curled around the acorn at her throat. 


	2. Dreams

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Author's notes: I'm sorry if it's all terribly cryptic and weird, and that chapter one hasn't been explained yet, or rather the space between these two hasn't been explained. It will be. Review, review!  
  
Chapter two: Dreams  
  
Wendy was dreaming.  
  
She was suspended in air over an expanse of impossibly blue water. The clouds dripped pastel rain as they crept toward her curiously, and the wind was whispering a lullaby. She was drifting towards a labyrinth of green, and odorous flowers peered up at her with harlequin faces.  
  
A mother's arms held her, warm currents of wind that pressed her shift to her body and carried her far from the woman's silhouettes that now hung in her closet. The fall came slowly, a lazy spherical landing that set her in a bed of acorns. The surface did not hurt, as it should have.  
  
'Wendy, Wendy,' the wind was murmuring. Wendy's eyes were closed, and something kissed her eyelids, the colors of Neverland's sky blossoming on the black of their insides. Her hand was at her throat.  
  
'Wendy, Wendy, wake up, Wendy.' Velvet tones, whispering mezzo- soprano; a mother's voice. And yet the command was so contrary to the somnolent effect the words naturally had. Wendy was dreaming, and confusion was impossible in dreams. When the voice spoke again, she smiled.  
  
Her lips were naked, the kiss long ago given. They were warm with its memory, and Wendy's hidden eyes were placid in the pause before the kiss goodnight. The voice changed, but she was buried so deeply in the web of sleep and dreams that she did not notice.  
  
The kiss came softly, pressed to the right-hand corner. Wendy was not dreaming.  
  
What was distinctly her kiss was touching her lips, and her eyes flew open. The touch ceased and the dream ceased, but a part of it still hovered above her, regarding her quizzically. The dream was ending, then. He always came at the end.  
  
Wendy reached upward to place her farewell touch and thusly wake to find herself caressing air. But her hand met skin, warm skin peppered with dirt. The scent of earth and youth was suddenly overpowering. Wendy gasped and her hand fell. Peter Pan smiled.  
  
'You were smiling, Wendy. You were smiling, but there was no kiss,' there were stars housed permanently in the boy's eyes, and they winked jovially down at her. She sat up, feeling as if the last three years had not happened. Peter Pan had erased time when he flew in, but it clung to him. He was taller. Wendy dismissed it.  
  
'Silly boy, I gave my kiss away.' There was something rehearsed about the words. Peter frowned, his countenance retaining the comic elasticity of a youth he had outgrown. Of course, he wasn't aware. She had given her kiss away? Memory niggled its way into his eyes, and he looked decidedly relieved, a ghost touch given to his lips. Of course!  
  
'I thought I might give it back to you!' he beamed. The kiss had been real, then! Wendy frowned.  
  
'Give it back?' Was he letting her go, then? He seemed much too happy to be letting her go. Peter had drawn quite close, on hands and knees. He certainly hasn't learned about personal space, thought Wendy. Her heart was hammering, and Peter was smiling his awful, awful smile. Horrid boy!  
  
'Yes. So you can give it again!' he nearly crowed, and Wendy slapped a hand over his mouth. His eyes were all mischief. Oh, it was more than height, then. Some parts of Peter were quite aware that he had grown, and the parts that wouldn't accept it were reveling in the game.  
  
'Hush!' she hissed, crossly. But nothing could taint the delight in her eyes. Peter Pan had come back to her window! And it certainly was her window, for she had left the nursery a year ago. She had no time to ask how the boy knew, for he had taken her hands and was pulling her to her feet.  
  
'It is time, Wendy! Neverland calls your name!' His eyes were all light. Peter reached out and touched her hair, leaving a trail of golden light. There was fairy dust in his hand. They rose.  
  
'Wait, Peter,' Wendy said. She could not refuse him now, nor could she be so careless in her leaving as she had three years ago. She plucked a leaf from the band across his chest. Peter looked mildly surprised, and let her go.  
  
Wendy drifted down and walked to her bed, setting the leaf on her pillow. Sad, dutiful Wendy would stay behind, with the hourglass dresses in her closet. There were a few drops of childhood to be squeezed out yet, and Peter offered them. She glanced back to him. He was hovering with a look that said he knew she would come.  
  
He flew down and took her hand, and like that they left her room from the door and crept to the nursery. The window was open and as one they alighted the sill. Wendy looked to her brothers, and Peter, already airborne, touched her shoulder. She turned to him, smiling. It was all quite simple, really.  
  
Wendy stepped off the ledge. She loved him still. 


	3. Lucifer

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Notes: I must give credit where credit is due. A few plot points, and the way Rufio will be portrayed, are thanks largely to a very good RP I was involved in. The writing is my own, but much of Rufio's characterization is Michelle's.  
  
Chapter three: Lucifer  
  
Captain Hook was prowling the deck of the Jolly Roger. His statuesque form was wrapped in leather and a coat of brocade green velvet and aging lace. The hat was large and black, the plume green and flecked by snow. His good hand was held over eyes that squinted into the swirling gray sky, and his hook rested on the railing, tracing agitated patterns in the ice.  
  
There was a time when he could sense Pan's departures and arrivals. It was a twinge of something in both the chest and at the nape of the neck. It forced attentiveness through the veins of the gentleman pirate, and if the boy had left, it drove him to pace the deck until the snow melted. The twinge faded during his time inside The Crocodile.  
  
Ah, The Crocodile. It had been a simple matter, really. Hook had waited, pensively, in the darkness of the belly, collected his thoughts and laid them out in the blackness. When he had banished the irrational plots and the mad internal monologues, he steeped for a time in his rage.  
  
Then, with one clean swipe of the hook, he killed and exited the crocodile. After a terribly meticulous cleansing process, he reemerged from the cave a collected but completely vengeful man.  
  
The Crocodile's corpse was left to rot in the water of the cave, its blood never quite fading. But when it did not rot, Hook sent some of his newly scavenged crew to bring the beast back to the wharf and set up a monument. While sewing the monster's cloven belly, the scalawags noted its vaguely red color, dyed so by the blood. When notified, Hook merely made a comment on its aesthetic value. The statue was still in progress.  
  
The pirates that remained after Hook's fall, including Smee, had built the wharf, feeling the need for increased protection. Smee had overseen the Jolly Roger. He was only mildly surprised when its Captain returned. There were few changes, and Captain James Hook liked it that way.  
  
Save one. His sense was gone. For a briefly elated moment, Hook thought that perhaps the boy had died. He dismissed the idea promptly, and at the precise moment there sounded the spectral ticking of a clock. Pan arrived moments later.  
  
When Hook emerged from the shock of both the boy and the awful sound, he immediately tied the two together. At the dawn of their second fight the ticking came again. With exquisite melancholy, Hook accepted the hated tick as his new herald. He fought gallantly and lost.  
  
That morning the snow came soon after the tick. Hook calmed, for this meant Pan was gone, and began to pace the deck.  
  
After four hours he was at the railing, pondering the reason for the boy's first departure since the pirate's defeat. The only sounds were the wind and the hushed scratching of his hook.  
  
Perhaps he had died? No, that was a vain, happy thought. If that was so, Hook knew he would feel distinctly giddy.  
  
A new Lost Boy to be claimed? No, Peter never bothered to bring them. They came to him, and he hardly remembered their names at all. What then?  
  
It could not be another girl. It could not be a girl at all. Unless. his hand had stopped some time ago, and now he noticed the absence of the sound. He looked down.  
  
There, engraved in the grain of the rail in perfect penmanship, was the name Wendy.  
  
Of course! Hook mused upon the slyness of his subconscious, then left the rail and began to pace again. There were many things that could be done, redone and done well. It merely required the proper plan. And Captain James Hook excelled in the matter of conniving. He smiled.  
  
'Yo-ho, yo-ho the frisky plank, you walks along it so.'  
  
Oh, meritorious day. 


	4. Lost Boy

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Notes: None of my chapters are beta'd, simply because I am too lazy and or impatient. Please tolerate the grammatical errors, because I know there's probably quite a few. If anyone wants to beta for me, I'd be very happy. I've been spitting out chapters pretty fast, but it ebbs and flows. No more chitchat! Chapter four. There will be more Wendy and Peter next chapter.  
  
Chapter Four: Lost Boy  
  
All of the Lost Boys were huddled in the Nevertree, playing games until the storm ceased. There were more than the usual six, and they gave forth a terrible din when trapped inside together. Thankfully, the spelled bark of the tree kept every peep within, for otherwise the pirates would not believe the myth that the tree was deserted.  
  
Peter always thought it terribly amusing that the pirates searched all of Neverland, save that silent tree.  
  
The new Boys were certainly different. Gone was the endearing lilt of the British tongue, for all of these boys were American. It seemed the country was much more adept in the matters of dispensing unwanted children.  
  
Gone too were the animal skins that set them apart from Pan. They were hardly needed, for each boy wore a distinct personality like a particularly large scarf.  
  
There was Pockets, who prowled Brooklyn's streets as a pickpocket before the fairies took him. His dark hair was his greatest vanity, and he wore a comb at his belt.  
  
Ace, a once well-to-do boy who lost his parents and staged multiple escapes from his New England orphanage. He was tall, with a shock of blond beneath his bowler hat.  
  
Thud Butt, a dark boy who earned his name from the sound made when he seated his rather large girth. Don't Ask, who asked too much, and always had something or another thing stuck in his mop of orange curls. No Nap, too tall, too silent, and far too fond of sleeping.  
  
The smallest were Latchboy and Too Small. The first never laughed aloud, the second laughed at everything. There were a few others, who earned new names every day, for there were simply too many for Peter to keep track of. They didn't mind.  
  
The clamor of their combined forces within the tree drowned any thought, and any ability to recognize that one of their number was not among them. Tinker Bell, the only one who might see, was in her little house with a pillow clamped over her dainty head, praying for Peter's return and the end of this wretched snow.  
  
Rufio's absence was not noted, and for that the boy was grateful. He sat upon the snow-covered sand, an arm over his knee, studying the curve of a frozen wave. The tip of his sword rested in the snow, his hand twirling the blade idly, boring a hole into the earth. Light played off the steel in slow bands, but Rufio's eyes were on the motionless water.  
  
The snow did not cling to him. It hit, then slid off promptly as rain, puddling around him. Rufio only saw this as a small annoyance, and so dismissed it.  
  
The strange behavior of the snow was not all that set him apart. His appearance, certainly, was different. All red cloth and black leather, with a hairstyle that rivaled any parrot's plumage. He wore a necklace of teeth and shells that whispered stories, a chain of feathers hung from an ear, and his hands were gloved. But these things were trivial, and merely interesting to look at.  
  
Rufio's greatest difference was his silence. It was not the bewildered kind, nor the respectful kind, nor the wondering kind. He would be no different from other quiet boys if that were so. No, Rufio's silence was a brooding silence, for his heart had fought the bewitching pull of Neverland ever since the fairies had set him, coughing up water and weaponless, on her shores.  
  
He had lain there on the sand for a day at least, drying and watching the water. It was too blue, and it laughed at him. Peter found him soon after and pronounced him pirate. He seemed quite the normal boy, and so Rufio merely raised a brow and stood, calmly challenging his authority. They seemed the same age, he noticed. Rufio was just past sixteen.  
  
Peter Pan stepped into the sky and hovered, and Rufio planted the seeds of a jealousy he silently harbored. He asked Pan his name, but the boy continued to flit about his head and call him every disreputable synonym for pirate. Pushed to the brink, Rufio's cool finally slipped from his fingers, and he shouted up to the boy.  
  
'My name is Rufio! Got that? Rufio. Rufio. Ru-fi-o!' Pan merely smirked, and Rufio bristled. Peter flew up to him, his body horizontal in the air, his nose irritatingly close. Dancing light, timeless earth, and every laugh that ever echoed. That was all this boy was, and his voice cut merrily when he spoke.  
  
'Must it always be said like that? Rufio. Rufio! Ru-fi-ooooooh!' Peter crowed and turned a back flip in the air. Next to the seeds of jealousy, Rufio planted the seeds of intense dislike. As the two grew they twisted together until Rufio could not pick one apart from the other. His black eyes were narrowed on Pan's acrobatic form.  
  
'Rufio, or nothin',' he spat, glowering. Pan crossed his legs and sat, midair, before him.  
  
'Well, Rufio or nothing, I have a proposition.' He twirled his blade, and Rufio watched it. If he kept his eyes on Pan's complacent grin he knew he would not be able to quell the urge to rip him apart. Pan continued, nonplussed by the rage that rushed from the boy like heat.  
  
'Since you say you are not a pirate, and you cannot be an Indian, you can only be a Lost Boy. You are too old, but that is what you must be.' Peter, apparently, did not take his own size into account. But it was known fact that the other boys must be smaller than him. 'Take a sword from a pirate, and I will make you one of us.'  
  
Rufio said nothing, but Peter did not care. He had flown off already, and Rufio could not help but watch him go, listless for a moment. He resolved to find the sword. It was not to be a part of Pan's entourage, for he would never be subservient to this boy. It was merely the challenge that must be obeyed, and nothing else afterward. He would not be smaller than this boy, however high Pan flew.  
  
Hardly three days later Pan left. Rufio had a pirate's sword. He walked to the shore, leaving a trail of melted prints. Sitting, he watched frozen sea and gray sky, waiting for Pan's return. 


	5. The Locket

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Notes: Er. There are none? On with Chapter five, I say! It's rather short. Don't lynch me.  
  
Chapter Five: The Locket  
  
Wendy had come back, and for a time Peter Pan would be without nightmares. Neverland breathed a sigh of warm relief, and the snow melted.  
  
The two descended, settling in a large cloud that overlooked the harbor. Wendy peered down at this new development with a new look, something between wonder and calculation. There seemed to be more pirates, she noticed, and her stomach gave an odd, excited little turn.  
  
With Bill Jukes and Hook gone, her stories were sadly barren, so barren that she rarely told them. Or perhaps that was growing up. Wendy settled back on the cloud. She might have frowned, had she not realized how terribly tired she was. She hid a rather great yawn with her hand, laying her cheek against a rise of cloud. It smelled distinctly sweet, and she thought drowsily that she might be able to eat it, like spun sugar.  
  
Peter landed beside her, crawling to the edge of the cloud and taking out the spyglass. He held it to his eye, and did not notice when Wendy crept back to the center of the cloud. The wharf was crawling with scalawags, but the Jolly Roger was almost deserted. Peter frowned, looking from rigging to deck.  
  
'A-ha! Hook!'  
  
Hook? Silly boy, had he forgotten such a great victory? It wasn't entirely impossible. Wendy smiled and closed her eyes. Sleep came without the hue of dreams, for in Neverland they were nonexistent, the island being the greatest dream of all.  
  
'Wendy, you must come and see!' Peter called, glancing over his shoulder. The last word came softly. Asleep? Peter crept up to her on all fours. She was still very strange. He looked from sleeping eyes to sleeping lips. Perhaps he gazed at sleeping lips overlong, but he did not notice his error, his eyes already running further down.  
  
There was a glimmer of something next to his kiss. He knit his brows, reaching out with a finger and knocking the acorn gingerly aside. She wore something else on the chain, a small, egg-shaped silver locket.  
  
Peter was not afraid of waking her, for he possessed the slyest fingers. With no attempts made to resist his curiosity, the boy took the thing and opened it. His eyes darkened, and he quickly shut the trinket.  
  
He thought for a moment that he might tug it off and let it fall into the ocean. But Wendy would notice its absence, and perhaps be angry with him. It seemed wrong, especially when the girl slept so peacefully. Peter sat back, arms around his knees, and watched her for a time.  
  
A ruckus had begun on the ship, for Peter Pan had returned and the pirates were preparing. When the noises reached him, Peter crawled to the cloud's edge, grinning. The air was ripe for battle, and there were pirate plans to be foiled. Peter leapt into the air, but was held back by the distinct sensation that he was forgetting something. Rather than ignore it, he turned, and his eyes fell. Oh.  
  
It would not do to leave her on the cloud. Peter flew back down and scooped her into his arms. She murmured, and Peter stilled. Waking her would mean explaining things to her, and explaining things to her was a tedious matter to Peter. When he was quite sure she would not rise, he flew down to the shore a safe distance from the pirate wharf.  
  
Peter set her in the drying sand. Once he was satisfied that she was safe, he turned from her and did forget, flying to the harbor to begin the game of spying. Wendy slept on, a very white mark in the stretch of sand, her head pillowed on her arms.  
  
It was in such a state that Rufio found her. 


	6. Achilles Heel

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Notes: Thanks again for Michelle and her fantastic Rufio inspiration. And thank you to Jetso, my avid reviewer! Buckets of love for you. This is not a very squee chapter, but those will come soon!  
  
Chapter Six: Achilles Heel  
  
Rufio lowered his sword.  
  
The sleeping figure was unmistakably a girl. Rufio took the time to be appropriately surprised, though little was displayed on his face. His dark eyes were curious, if anything, but they were quietly so. He flipped his sword and caught it by the blade, then crept toward her.  
  
Neverland had the ability to accentuate some things and blot out others completely. Belonging in the latter category were hormones, for Neverland was built by the dreams of children still innocent to these matters. Perhaps one could awaken certain things, if one wished, but it is needless to say that Neverland's fabric would be permanently ruffled.  
  
Love was still quite foreign, and so those who felt it had a terrible time identifying what it was, no matter their age or maturity. In the end, Wendy was entirely too much trouble.  
  
Rufio stopped at Wendy's feet. Hormones or no, a girl was still a very novel thing. It would not do to have her sleeping, so Rufio poked her in the shin with the butt of his sword. Wendy moaned softly. Rufio nudged again and she stirred, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.  
  
Wendy was disoriented, to say the least. She looked about, wearing an expression of sleepy disapproval. Rufio watched her patiently, waiting for the yelp of shock. It came, and she began to scramble backward. Somehow, Rufio kept himself from smirking.  
  
'I won't hurt you,' he said flatly, offering his hand. She stilled and regarded him suspiciously. In the end, habit won, for Wendy was a victim of a society of manners. She took his hand gingerly, tugging her own away when he had helped her to her feet.  
  
'Thank you,' she mumbled, inspecting her hand surreptitiously. Rufio did not leave, and she grew uncomfortable. What if he was a pirate? An awkward silence settled. Rufio did not seem to notice.  
  
'What's your name?' he said, after a time. Wendy looked up suddenly and froze. He was wearing the same expression. Dash manners! She thought, but in vain, for she was speaking soon enough.  
  
'Wendy,' her voice was short, the lack of long introduction conspicuous. Aunt Millicent would have scolded. Propriety niggled again, and she muttered after a pause. 'And yours?'  
  
'Rufio,' he said, slowly. His eyes were different now. It was the nightmare name. It seemed strange when given so softly, for he had only ever heard it whimpered in childish longing. This was Pan's Wendy. He had listened with disinterest to the stories, but it was hard to dismiss them when they were standing flesh and bone before him. She was appropriately pretty, he noted, but went no further. This was a piece of Pan's territory that would be foolish to encroach upon.  
  
'You are not a pirate, then?' Wendy broke the silence with some timidity. Rufio's head snapped up.  
  
'No!' he said, crossly.  
  
'Begging your pardon, your attire is so very odd, I could not tell.' She spoke coldly, slightly irked by the boy's forceful reply. Rufio's eyes narrowed.  
  
'You're lucky I'm not! Girls lying alone on beaches make easy targets.'  
  
'I am quite capable of defending myself, thank you!' It was a feeble retaliation. She was very much unarmed, and she had only a vain hope that he would not notice. The hope flickered out when she saw that he was smirking.  
  
'With what?' Rufio was looking very smug. He had irritated her, he knew. It is among a boy's greatest delights when he finds that he can irritate a girl. He circled her with a predator's leer, dragging the hilt of his sword in the sand.  
  
Wendy was watching the progress of the sword, but Rufio was too busy having the upper hand to notice. Needless to say, he was quite baffled when her dainty foot darted out and kicked the hilt up. She caught it and pointed the blade at his throat. Rufio blinked.  
  
'They are not a master's hands, but they are by no means inexperienced.' Wendy spoke carefully. She was forcing him backwards, towards the trees. Rufio was marveling at her, quite stunned by this turnaround. He knew the forest well enough to move backwards through it, and so kept his eyes on her.  
  
'How'd you get here?'  
  
'I flew.'  
'Pan brought you.' His voice dulled. Wendy noticed, but said nothing of it.  
  
'Yes, Peter brought me.'  
  
'Where is he now, then?' Rufio sneered, his mean streak rearing up at the mention of the name. Wendy promptly smacked his arm with the flat of the blade, and Rufio flinched. 'Ow!'  
  
'He is occupied elsewhere.' She recovered admirably, noting that they must be nearing the Underground Home, though the forest was considerably thicker than she remembered. However, Rufio had struck a nerve, and Wendy was not one to take things quietly. She recalled his deflation of moments earlier, and spoke precisely. 'Though I do wish he would return soon. I much prefer his company to yours. Can you even fly?'  
  
Rufio was thankful that she stopped then, for he lost the feeling in his legs, and had she kept on she would have run him clean through. His eyes were at his feet, and he waited until his vision stopped swimming to speak. He looked at her, and his eyes were burning. 'You can't either. Not without his pixie dust.' He nearly spat the last words.  
  
'No. No, I can't,' Wendy said quietly, rather disturbed by his gaze. She lowered the sword and turned it, offering the hilt to Rufio. The atmosphere had grown much too tense for her game. Rufio's eyes cooled slightly, and he took the sword. Wendy nodded carefully. A thick silence settled. 'You are not on good terms, then?' The answer was obvious, but Wendy hated the quiet.  
  
'Depends on your definition of "good",' Rufio muttered. Another silence, and Wendy tried again.  
  
'I will not say it is a shame, for I cannot say I enjoy your company.' There was no malice in the words, only gentle truth. Wendy continued before it became awkward again. 'He did not mention you, or any of the new boys, now that I think on it.'  
  
'He'd do best not to.'  
  
'He has said nothing, I assure you.' She paused. 'But I might say something of him! Half the afternoon worn away and he is still gone! The boy is quite careless, sometimes.' Her tirade may have been out of place, but it was a pleasant change in the terse conversation.  
  
'He doesn't think,' Rufio interjected. His voice was nearly monotone. 'Club his ears, he might listen then.'  
  
'Oh, but he does listen!' Wendy defended earnestly at first. 'When he wants to.' The momentum crashed to a halt. She suffered a moment of the awful silence, then sighed her defeat. Wendy bowed her head and moved past him.  
  
Rufio thought for a moment that he might catch up with her. He watched the forest swallow the white of her shift, then let his eyes fall to the sword. For a moment it seemed strange in his hand, but that soon faded. He seated himself on an obliging tree root, and one could not read his eyes.  
  
Wendy was not long in reaching the tree. She stopped in the clearing, the tingle of memory filling her as soon as her feet touched the leaf- strewn ground. She wondered that things still clung to her, for she was under the impression that Neverland made you forget. But it was Neverland itself that things clung to, and having just arrived, Wendy was allowed brief nostalgia before she fell into the numb of timeless days.  
  
She found the new entrance easily, crouching before the knot. The engravings of their names were warm beneath her fingers, and she wore a secret smile. Wendy pressed the 'P' and watched the door roll open, then stepped inside. 


	7. The Star

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook. I do not get tired of this disclaimer.  
  
Notes: This chapter has a few more squees in it. You may want to whack Peter over the head (who doesn't?), but he redeems himself. Onward!  
  
Chapter Seven: The Star  
  
Peter Pan was chasing stars.  
  
The bout of spying proved quite productive, for Hook was never one to lay his plans quietly. His flair for the dramatic was a terrible flaw, and the pirate captain knew it, but it did not stop him from plotting in most accessible ways.  
  
The sky was purpling when Hook unveiled the finishing touches. Peter had grown so terribly pleased with himself at this extensive discovery that he shot into the air with a triumphant crow. This made the information worthless, he knew, for Hook would surely change his plans, but Peter thought the curses Codfish sent after him quite worth it.  
  
He remained airborne in the inky night for quite some time, turning circles around the fleeing starlight. He fell into the habit of nearly catching his target, and then letting it flee again, for he was much too fond of the chase. But Peter was quicker than even he estimated, and soon found his palms cupped around a star.  
  
Peter hovered, peering down at the quivering ball of silver light, and his brow furrowed. The light reached out, smoothing his forehead, and memory trickled into his eyes. 'Wendy,' he murmured, slowly. And then, 'Wendy!'  
  
He had forgotten Wendy! Peter nearly dropped the star in his excitement. How long had he been gone? His lithe body was cutting toward the sand now, but she was not there. There were tracks - lovely, small feet - and Peter rested above them for a moment in study. He tucked the star into a pouch at his belt.  
  
Peter followed the tracks on foot. The forest whispered its excitement when he drew near, and parted politely to let him pass. When he drew near to the underground home Peter tired of the game and leapt into the air again. Wendy would be there, he was certain.  
  
He was smiling his lazy smile when he set down before the knothole. The door rolled aside, and Peter entered. The Lost Boys were seated before Wendy, their faces frozen in rapturous gazes. Peter might have been miffed by heist of all the attention, had Wendy not been telling one of her stories.  
  
Wendy had set her scolding face aside for Peter. It was laid out nicely, ready to be put on when he returned. But the girl was quite occupied when he did enter, arms gesturing with the climax of the story. Her eyes danced, and then warmed, and her hands folded prettily at the denouement.  
  
The obvious end was met with cries of approval from the boys, and Wendy smiled and promised them another story tomorrow, but now it was time for all good boys to go to bed. Shooing away their complaints, she looked up and promptly froze.  
  
Peter was standing in the doorway. He had quite forgotten his expression. At the sound of the wonderful stories and the sight of her animated telling, his face had slid into an arrangement that was appreciative and something else, something not entirely boyish. Oh, it would be very hard to chastise him now. Wendy was quite determined to do so, however, and she stood with purpose as the boys scurried to their beds around her.  
  
'Peter Pan,' she began, firmly. He was drawing closer. Wendy continued, undaunted. 'It was quite inconsiderate of you to abandon me on the beach. You are most fortunate that I remembered the way back to the Home and to my safety. There was a very great possibility of my encountering a p- oh!' Her hands flew to her heart as the fluttering little sound left her. A shame really, for she had been doing quite well. Peter was smiling his awful, wonderful smile.  
  
In his open palms was the star. Perhaps it sensed the presence of a lady, for it was quite still now, and glowing becomingly. Peter's smile softened imperceptibly. There was a part of him that truly wanted to please her, though what that part was he didn't know.  
  
Peter reached out and took her hand. He had a greater confidence now when he touched in these delicate situations. It was not the ignorance of personal space, but a thing that had come with his growing taller. It had yet to frighten him, but it might have then had Wendy not been smiling so.  
  
'Oh, Peter. It's lovely,' she breathed, cupping the light in her hands. Her face was at its prettiest in that light, and the little Wendy was peering down in awe behind older eyes. When she looked up, Peter's eyes were there.  
  
He smiled carefully. All at once he had no idea what to do.  
  
'I shall keep it safe, Peter,' said Wendy after a pause. She opened her locket, its contents facing her, and slipped the star inside. She shut it tenderly, and did not look up in time to see that Peter had frowned.  
  
It was inside that awful thing, but perhaps that made the awful thing less awful. It was next to his kiss, and her heart, after all. Peter decided that this made him happy, and he looked at Wendy again. She was hiding a yawn with her hand. This meant he should do something, but he did not realize what until she said, 'I am awfully tired, Peter.'  
  
'I haven't moved your house yet, Wendy,' he admitted. Then he brightened. 'You may have my bed!'  
  
'I couldn't!' One could not tell whether she was scandalized or excited. Perhaps both.  
  
'Why not?'  
  
Wendy sobered. 'There are things that one simply does not do, Peter,' she said, gently. Peter clearly did not understand, but he swallowed it as best he could.  
  
'I will sleep somewhere else, then.'  
  
'Are you sure?'  
  
How strange! Why wouldn't he be? Peter was perplexed, but Wendy needed reassurance. 'Yes, I'm sure, Wendy.'  
  
'That is very kind of you, Peter.' Wendy smiled and turned to the bed. She had almost said 'gentlemanly', but had stopped herself, knowing how the word might offend the boy. Though it seemed terribly silly, what with Peter looking the way he did now. She settled into the furs. They were quite as nice as the cloud. 'Good night, Peter.'  
  
Peter remained where he was, watching her for a time. At long last, when she was very much asleep, he said, 'Good night, Wendy.' It was very soft and strange, and it very nearly startled Peter. He turned and left the Home; quite sure the girl was safe this time. Tonight was not a night for sleep. 


	8. Muscat

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Author's Notes: Time for Hook again. This chapter was ridiculously frustrating.  
  
Chapter Eight: Muscat  
  
Hook's curses continued to chase Peter Pan long after the boy could not hear them. Not entirely mollified, the Captain produced his pistol and fired a shot out the porthole. When the gun smoke dissipated, one could see that the bullet had rent a constellation into a mess of confused lights. James Hook calmed, and put the gun away.  
  
It always happened this way, and he always wasted a bullet. Hook rested his namesake against his lips in thought. He turned from the window and crossed to his harpsichord.  
  
The matter of undoing Pan was inherently flawed. Hook laid traps, and Pan waltzed through them, often pausing to let the Captain tickle his chin with a weapon before he flitted away. And often did Hook's eyes turn red in anticipation, but the stroke never met flesh. This was a terrible damper upon his credibility, and the pirate was most put out.  
  
Hook began to play. His left hand produced something tuneless while the hook carved harmonies into the air.  
  
Smee entered. He crossed to the harpsichord, placing a crystal goblet on its top and filling it with muscat. He set the liquor down beside the glass, and exited as unobtrusively as he had entered. Hook continued to play, never acknowledging his bosun.  
  
While on hiatus in the belly of a Crocodile, Hook remembered a time before the eternal game of cat and mouse. Unfortunately, the memories were warped and full of holes. Perhaps it was Neverland, or perhaps it was the odor one encounters inside a Crocodile, but it did not take Hook long to realize that he could not even be properly killed until he dealt with Pan.  
  
Of course, the day of Hook's reemergence was precisely the day that Peter Pan realized he was growing bored.  
  
Hook's fingers mused in fifths. If he acted tomorrow, and laid his trap, Pan would come. And then Pan would escape, and Hook would swear, and the Captain realized that he was predicting his days. His hand stopped playing. This was monotony, then. Monotony was dangerous, he knew, for what could come after it but Bad Form?  
  
He stroked the keys, touching his hook to his chin. It was time for a change. He began to play again.  
  
He needed to shock the boy. But how does one shock Peter Pan? There was a log taken down in his head of his attempts, and he was coming to the dreary conclusion that he had tried everything.  
  
He began to strike the same note, softer and softer, until it did not ring at all.  
  
He always acted, and Peter Pan expected it. So perhaps the greatest shock would be no act at all? Yes. Hook began to play again. Yes.  
  
It was time to simply enjoy being the greatest pirate Captain who ever lived. The notes came quickly and easily, like water, and as water floods, they filled the room. And like water, the plans were filling Hook's head again. His mind was turning, not as before, as the creaking water mill, but quite like a wave; vigorous, vigorous, vigorous and violent.  
  
Hook smiled. These plans had a certain novelty, he noticed. It took him a moment of examining their keen edges and the distinctly pungent taste to realize why they were so different. Of course, it was the same conclusion as all conclusions. It was Pan, but not Pan in the normal sense; the distinct lack of Pan.  
  
He was going to wreak havoc like a proper pirate. And if Pan was by chance blotted out amidst the chaos, it would be all the sweeter. But for the first time, Pan would not be his greatest concern. Hook's smile was indulgent.  
  
His eyes fell upon the goblet. At that moment he struck a chord, quite literally. The notes reached out and the crystal caught them. They drowned slowly in the amber liquor, and Hook's hand lifted from the piano and went to the glass. He drank deeply, and with the taste of the liquor came another memory. Hook held the drink at arm's length, examining it in the candlelight. In his smile was a combination of many things, but in his eyes was only one.  
  
Wendy Darling was quite old enough for muscat. 


	9. Parents

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Notes: Michelle, Michelle! Bow down to Michelle for Rufio inspiration. There is some Spanish in this chapter. Rufio comes from the Philippines, where they speak both Spanish and Tagalog, and the Spanish used in this chapter translates to 'You hate, you hate,' and 'I hate, I hate.' Oh, and yes, this is angsty. Yay.  
  
Chapter Nine: Parents  
  
Peter Pan was not the only sleepless boy in Neverland. That night Rufio walked the island in pensive circles. The moon was rolling over the crest of the sky when he came back to the Nevertree. The air was thick with sleep, but that did not stop Rufio from noticing the light.  
  
He stood in the doorway, his eyes adjusting. It was not Tinker Bell. Her light was in its usual place, escaping from the cracks in the paneling of her apartments. In fact, since Wendy's arrival, the fairy had yet to emerge from her little house, though one could occasionally hear a long-suffering chime from within.  
  
No, the light came from the far end of the room, near Pan's bed. Rufio thought about this, and almost considered abandoning the matter then and there. But he was already creeping closer, curiosity besting him twice in one day. He could not help but wonder what Pan had ensnared that sparkled so.  
  
It was when he was some two feet removed that Rufio realized that it was not Pan, but Pan's Wendy. The girl was alone in the boy's bed, the light near enough to her to lay soft shadows on her pretty face. Rufio knelt beside the bed.  
  
The glow hung from a chain around her neck. Its center was dark, and when Rufio leaned in, he recognized a locket. The chain also held a wounded acorn, but Rufio had not heard that story, so he merely wondered at its sentiment before focusing again on the locket. It was clasped to the chain by a little loop of metal that could be pulled apart. Rufio did this with scrupulous fingers, and soon the locket and its light were in his palms. Wendy stirred, and Rufio froze, but the girl did not wake.  
  
It took him a moment to find the clasp, and a moment more to undo it. When he opened it the light sprang out, and his eyes followed it. It was a star, he noticed, with a wondering face. It was suspended before him for all of a breath, and soon fell from the air and fled across the floor. Rufio closed his fist around the locket, groping for the star with his free hand. When it eluded his fingers a third and fourth time, Rufio knew who must have caught it for her. With a grumbling head, he abandoned the chase, and the star peeked guiltily out at him from beneath the bed.  
  
He had opened the locket again, and was looking down with a stolid face, his eyes lightless pits of black. Two gray faces materialized in his palms, and in the feeble light he saw a woman with Wendy's mouth and a man with her eyes. He knew at that moment that these were parents, Wendy's parents. A recollection of some withering thing blossomed in him, and he threw up his arms against the faces and the light. The locket fell and he pushed himself away.  
  
Rufio's staring eyes did not see that Wendy had sat up, and was looking at him now through the gloom. There was an aging question in her eyes, but it was with a silent mouth that she slipped from the bed, bypassing both locket and star and kneeling at some distance from Rufio.  
  
The boy was without the Nevertree, and without Neverland. He saw nothing, and heard only the howling, crushing cadence of a boiling sea. 'Tu odias, to odias,' the waves said sweetly. 'Yo odio, yo odio,' Rufio agreed in a whisper, and began to drown without protest.  
  
He flinched. He was in the Nevertree again, his arms wrapped around his knees. Wendy was before him with frightened eyes. Her hand was barely present on his arm, but it was enough to drag him back. Rufio gave her his lightless gaze and said in a hollow voice, 'Parents.'  
  
'Oh.' said Wendy. Her hand and expression fell at the same time, and her eyes saw eggshells.  
  
Rufio's head fell into his hands. His stoicism was gone, and feeling bled into the furrows now etched in his brow. It was in his voice when he spoke halting words from a tattered throat. "I shouldn't be here," he said. His fingers were rigid against his skull. "It's a mistake."  
  
Wendy was fighting a losing battle with propriety. Her eyes could not comfort a boy who would see nothing. In the end manners lost, shoved aside by mother. Wendy reached forward and took his hands capably. Rufio looked up.  
  
'I doubt that,' she said gently.  
  
'I'm not supposed to be here,' he said, firmly. Her hands were warm.  
  
'How do you know?' She was so very disarming, in her Wendy way. Rufio paused. He looked past her, and his eyes were ghostly.  
  
'I'm supposed to be dead.' Wendy's grip tightened involuntarily. Rufio did not notice. 'I'm supposed to be with my father. He's waiting and I want to go, but this place won't let me.'  
  
'If you are supposed to be dead, then why aren't you?'  
  
Rufio blinked. Wendy was looking at him with soft, sad eyes. But her frank mouth startled him, and there was a hovering silence before he answered.  
  
'Fairies,' he said, slowly. His voice was strange, and he hesitated. 'They pulled me from the water. Brought me here.'  
  
'Then surely, you were not meant to die.'  
  
Rufio frowned and pulled his hands away. 'I have nothing to give. I have nothing. I have his feathers and his shells and Neverland keeps me away.' He closed his eyes against a wave of something, and finished in a whisper. 'Yo odio. I hate.'  
  
Wendy watched as a single tear escaped him, pale and wet against his brown skin. It fell quickly, and Wendy knew that this boy had not cried in a very long time. She whispered too, and her voice seemed damp. 'You hate so much.' The words faded into a heavy silence, and for a long time all Wendy could was watch him as second and third tears joined the first.  
  
At long last she moved closer. Precariously, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and simply held him.  
  
It did not matter whose arms, this was an embrace for a boy long starved of them, and Rufio willingly collapsed into it. He cried easily for a long time, and Wendy rocked him slowly. Sometimes she murmured tuneless lullabies, but most often she was silent.  
  
The quiet pressed them, and she wondered if he had stopped crying, for Rufio was a dignified boy, and his tears were very soft. Her hands were in his hair tracing slow patterns. His hair was a thing of great pride to Rufio, and had he not been thrown open as he was, he would have made her stop. When he couldn't cry anymore, he spoke.  
  
'There's nothing for me here. I can't give anything. I can't,' he swallowed.  
  
'Shhh,' cooed Wendy.  
  
'There's nothing for me here.'  
  
'It's all right.' And then.  
  
'Wendy?' He was looking up at her with newborn eyes. Wendy felt her whole self lift.  
  
'Yes?'  
  
'I'm,' he tried. 'Sometimes I'm so afraid.' A beat. 'Is that okay?'  
  
Wendy smiled, and it was like light. 'Yes, yes! It is more than okay, it is wonderful!' And then, like mother, 'It is human, Rufio.'  
  
His smile came carefully, but when it did it was just that: human. He heaved a great, long-caged sigh, and felt as if he had shrugged off a few layers of clothing. 'I'm so daunted sometimes,' he said, drawing away from her cautiously. He seemed afraid the air outside her arms would asphyxiate him. It didn't, and he finished his thought. 'By everything.'  
  
Wendy was cold. Her arms had nothing to hold, and so she wrapped them around herself. Mother bid goodnight, and Wendy was alone again with a kissless mouth. 'I am too, sometimes. But nothing can hurt you here, unless you want it to.' Her voice was naked and hushed. 'Sometimes I'm terrified.' Rufio looked at her, puzzled.  
  
'But you have the option of going back,' he said, nearly bitter.  
  
'I'm afraid of that, too,' she said in a very small voice. Her eyes were on the locket, or perhaps the twinkling light that rested very near to it. Rufio could not tell, but his eyes were clearing. He made an educated guess.  
  
'Neverland makes you forget,' he said, eyes fixed on the light. 'You can't let that happen,' but now he was looking at her while she looked away. 'Even if Pan promises the stars.'  
  
Wendy looked up, and her eyes were very wide.  
  
'You have the option of going back,' Rufio said, evenly.  
  
But Wendy's gaze fell again, and she was scooping the star and the locket into her hands. She looked with mussed eyes, first to one, then the other. Wendy sighed, slipping the star into the trinket and shutting it. 'I can't,' she said.  
  
Rufio resigned. 'Strength'll come,' he said. Wendy had strung the chain back through the locket. There it was, beside the acorn, beside her heart. She reached out and caught Rufio's hand.  
  
'For you, too,' she said.  
  
He looked down at their hands with a blank face. 'Maybe some day.'  
  
She let him go, and he looked up in time to see empathetic eyes. They were sad eyes, too, and he turned away from them. His steps ached as he returned to the night, and his arms ached as he pulled himself into the branches of the Nevertree, and his self ached as he watched the forest. He would not be surprised if bruises decorated him by morning, for hurt showed very plainly in Neverland.  
  
Below Rufio, in the Nevertree, Wendy's fingers curled around the locket. She did not sleep for a very long time. 


	10. The Feather

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Notes: In comes the second symbol in this facking story. Also, all of the terrible mess starts in this chapter, sorry if you're not an excessive angst fan. Well, it's not too excessive, and Wendy being who she is NEVER shows ANYTHING, especially now that she's older. Maybe that makes it more angsty. Oh, hahaha I ramble. I've been reading Barrie's notes. Bonus points to any who discover where they've wheedled themselves in.  
  
Chapter Ten: The Feather  
  
Wendy thought to reserve her first waking thought for Rufio, for the boy had occupied her fitful nighttime notions until sleep wiped them away. Upon waking, however, she found this quite impossible.  
  
Peter Pan was kneeling beside his bed, fast asleep. His arm was slung upward, and his lovely browned hand was covering hers. Wendy felt warmth that spread quickly from that touch to the rest of her, but she had sense enough not to sigh or gasp.  
  
She sat up, looking at their hands, her subconscious idly inventing reasons why he grew so tender, even in sleep. It dismissed any rational explanations and cultivated only the romantic ones, but Wendy was too busy deciding what to do about the matter to notice.  
  
Peter looked so very young, and his smile was so clean and close-lipped and sweet. Wendy leaned forward, and with her free hand thumbed away a smudge of dirt upon his brow. Peter did not stir. It seemed impossible that he was still taller than her. Then her eyes stumbled upon his hand again and yes, yes it was quite possible.  
  
Wendy withdrew her hand and stood. She thought for a moment, then turned and bent and pressed a kiss to the back of his empty hand. Thankfully, the brush of her hair did not tickle him awake, and the kiss remained on his skin, pale and loving.  
  
Wendy could think of nothing but Peter until she left the home and the entrance rolled shut behind her. Then came the dusty creak of sealing wood, and Wendy imagined herself a very silly girl. The things she promised to think of first now strolled into her mind belatedly.  
  
The previous night had not fallen out properly. Empathy had bubbled within her from the start, from the first slow, sad word out of Rufio's mouth. Wendy had floundered to show him this, but she found that as she grew older her consciousness of manners made it more and more difficult to express a consciousness of others. Self-conscious people are always in prison.  
  
Perhaps he had grasped it briefly, but it had seemed shallow. How could she have empathy when she was not stranded? When she could go home? She was a very selfish girl, certainly. No, last night had no fallen out properly at all.  
  
Words were becoming a constant failing, and now even her lovely, expressive face was hardly expressive at all. She wandered aimlessly through the wood, by Neverland's grace avoiding the traps that grew more frequent as she drew nearer to Indian Territory. Her brow was darkened by the awful conundrum of telling Rufio that she understood as much as he had let her understand, and something unspoken beneath that. How can one say something that must remain unspoken, after all?  
  
The Indians had had a raid the night before, for Wendy had heard their whooping cries at the latest hours of the night, just before she slept. She thought perhaps she had imagined them, but her ears had been quite honest. The fragments of Indian dress and the tattered remains of their yells were scattered in some places on the ground, surely on purpose, for the twigs and grasses were unbroken and undisturbed. Such was the Indian way.  
  
Just when Wendy began to resign herself to a clumsy and insufficient verbal explanation, the softest something brushed her foot. She bent and scooped it into her hands with a relief so palpable that it rustled the object like soft wind. What had seemed a purposeless Indian raid had a very great purpose indeed: to give Wendy her answer. She held the thing carefully and strode with much conviction toward the thinner part of the wood.  
  
Finding Rufio was not as difficult a matter as she had feared it might be. She spent some obligatory minutes searching in the wrong places, before finding the sense to search the right one. It happened much quicker than it would have when she were smaller, for sense was now terribly obedient and close. Wendy trod through the thinnest trees to the shoreline.  
  
Rufio sat in the dry sand, his back to her. He was watching the waves, or something on the waves that she could not see. Wendy was thinking that perhaps another time would be better when she heard her own voice, soft and almost scared. 'Good morning, Rufio.'  
  
Was it morning? It may have been afternoon before she spoke, but it certainly was morning now. In Neverland, time is only what you make of it.  
  
Rufio knew the voice, but he looked over his shoulder anyway. He stood, awkwardly, and noticed that Wendy's hands were behind her back. He said nothing.  
  
Wendy drew in a discreet breath for bravery. There was something childish about her hiding hands and her dirty shift, but the trappings of woman could not be diminished completely, even here. She placed a careful hold on his eyes before she tried speech.  
  
'Rufio, I do not believe we quite understood each other. I do believe I understood, but the manner of conveyance of that understanding is terribly difficult, and you must know that I understood, and I do hope that you -,' Rufio was regarding her quizzically. Wendy sighed, and tried again. 'Here,' she said, simply, holding out her hand.  
  
In her palm was a feather. It was neither too long nor too short, and without a fiber out of place. It was colored a brilliant scarlet, made more brilliant against her pallid hand. Rufio took it carefully, and spent a very long time looking down at his palms.  
  
His reaction was twofold what it had been for the star. When the awe fluttered away, there was something wonderfully real and sad beneath. His smile trembled, and there was a wounded light in his black eyes. He turned these eyes to Wendy. Her smile was oddly mournful.  
  
They spent a great moment like that, looking at each other. And at the same time, they both saw it quite plainly in the other's eyes: a soft, pulsing hope.  
  
Rufio looked down. With meticulous fingers, he looped a bit of leather chord around the narrowed tip of the feather. He tied the ends of the chord and slipped it round his neck. The feather nestled decorously between a shell and an animal tooth, and for a fleeting moment one could hear it whisper with the rest of them. The silence that followed was warm.  
  
After a long moment, Wendy's smile excused her, and she turned back to the wood.  
  
Peter Pan was standing at its edge. 


	11. Capture

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer, dyslexic style: Own Pan I do Peter not. Not I Hook own do.  
  
Notes: Oh, this chapter is fun, sort of. But angsty. I will try not to have too much angst, but I love it so. Er, there aren't really any notes for this chapter. Thank you to Kimberly A. and Jetso, my avid reviewers! And additional thanks to all others who have reviewed. I hope you like where it's going!  
  
Chapter Eleven: Capture  
  
Wendy could not move.  
  
Peter's hand was frozen on his dagger. His gaze went to Rufio first, and Rufio saw a pirate's eyes, raw and full of red feeling. It was not the first time that Rufio was frightened by him, and it would not be the last. Rufio smothered his instinct to reach for his blade. The precaution was needless, for Peter's eyes had moved on.  
  
To Wendy, Peter Pan had never looked younger than he did at the moment their eyes met. There were closed windows in his gaze, and for a long moment Wendy was afraid to move forward, lest there would be bars between them. But she did, and her hand reached out to him. Peter shied back.  
  
'Peter,' Wendy whispered.  
  
'No, Wendy,' Peter said. Her hand fell away, catching her plea. She drew it to her breast, perhaps hoping it could mend a fractured heart. Wendy stepped back with a bowed head.  
  
Rufio looked on in silence, his eyes on Pan. The feather was a stone weight around his neck, but he could not bring himself to tear it off. The gesture would resolve things in Pan's moment-to-moment world. But Rufio cared, and the stale feeling grated at his insides. Rufio would not tear off a mother's understanding just to show an awful boy something he should have seen already.  
  
Wendy watched the ground, and Peter watched Wendy with the lost eyes of a child who has just discovered that his favorite toy is broken. Rufio watched Pan, and the three hung in this torturous balance for a moment before a twig snapped in the wood.  
  
Rufio's hand did go to his blade then, and Peter Pan spun to face the forest.  
  
'Hook,' he said. Perhaps his hurt was only buried, but it seemed that Peter had forgotten the previous matter entirely. His eyes were lit by the promise of the pirate.  
  
'Come out, Codfish!' he taunted. Behind him, Rufio's knuckles were white around the hilt of his blade. He could not comprehend how Wendy kept herself from strangling this boy. It boggled him that the girl was the only one who wasn't growing violent at present, still standing with her bowed head and her quiet hands. She was almost unnaturally silent.  
  
It was not silence, Rufio realized; it was distance. Wendy was moving off up the beach, her carriage regal, her head no longer bowed. Rufio knew that Hook would not attack alone, and that there was likely an entire crew of pirates within the expanse of forest, watching Wendy as she strayed closer to its edge. Rufio sighed, looking once to the preoccupied Pan before following Wendy.  
  
Wendy was crying. They were not proper tears, but silent ones that ghosted down her cheeks. She was not entirely aware of the direction of her steps; only that they carried her near to the woods. Take it back, Wendy, Peter's gaze had said. Her kiss had withered on his lips. Take it back.  
  
'Wendy,' a voice said lowly. She froze. There was not sand, but vines, beneath her feet. She had walked into the forest, and was now quite surrounded by a writhing green dark.  
  
'Wendy,' said the voice again. It appealed to her this time, a sympathetic bass. A light breached the darkness, tracing a cold path down her cheek. Wendy was quite suddenly accosted by the scents of cigar smoke, liquor and aging lace, and it was not light that comforted her, but steel. Wendy shied away, into the waiting arms of a pirate. She did not scream, but a calloused hand eclipsed her mouth in precaution.  
  
'Darling,' said Hook. He was most distinguishable against the darkness now, and there was something acutely triumphant hanging about the corners of his mouth. His eyes, as always, were mirthless, and as blue as she remembered them to be.  
  
Wendy's eyes grew wide. Hook feigned shock.  
  
'Surely, Pan told you I lived?'  
  
Peter had been telling the truth! And Wendy had dismissed it as his forgetfulness. She began to struggle, and the arm around her middle tightened. She did not still until Hook traced her tear again. His eyes were somber.  
  
'This is not the first time he has made you cry,' he said, with gentle precision. Wendy's gaze fell, and she could not have struggled if she tried. In one swift motion the hand released her mouth and a gag replaced it. She was spared one wild-eyed glimpse of Hook before she was slung over the shoulder of her captor. Hook's voice wafted back to her, silencing her strangled cries.  
  
'Do forgive this grave insult, my dear. I simply could not do with a refusal for your company.' Soon they were moving out of the forest, the small group of pirates followed closely by the remainder that had scattered through the wood.  
  
Rufio slid from the tree in which he had been hiding. He was intelligent enough not to leap down amidst a slew of enemies that would slay him instantly. He was not worth torture. Once his feet touched sand, he was running.  
  
Peter was still at the forest's edge, looking quite put out. Why had Codfish not risen to his bate? It was the first time that ever happened. Peter found a rock and sat, placing his chin on his fists. It would be called sulking, if he were not so tall. But when a boy's jaw grows pronounced, he cannot properly sulk, and must brood. He ignored Rufio when the boy arrived, panting.  
  
'Wendy! Hook has Wendy!' Peter's head snapped up.  
  
'Wendy?' he cried. And then, in a hard voice, 'Wendy.' He frowned and resumed his brooding. Rufio shook his head.  
  
'You're a moron,' he said, flatly. Peter stood and drew his sword, most affronted.  
  
'What?' he spat.  
  
'I said,' Rufio drew his sword slowly, speaking over the even lick of unsheathing steel. 'You're a moron.' Peter looked at him, quite shocked. This was also a first, for his Lost Boys never insulted him. He recovered quickly, however, and cried out, flying at Rufio with a flashing sword.  
  
Rufio braced against Pan when their swords met, blocking the blow above his head. He shoved Pan off, but the boy recovered quickly. They held their swords at the ready, circling.  
  
'I don't think you heard me, Pan,' Rufio said, evenly. 'Hook has Wendy.'  
  
'And Wendy has you,' Peter snapped. 'Why should I care?'  
  
Rufio took a calming breath. Throttling this boy could prove fatal, and not for Pan. 'Wendy has you, Pan,' he corrected.  
  
'Not anymore.'  
  
Rufio's self-control snapped. He growled and ran at the boy, and Peter blocked his blow at the last moment. At such a distance, Rufio needed only a hiss to get his point across. 'Did you look at her? If she does not care about you, then she has an awfully strange way of showing it. Wendy does not strike me as the type to waste her tears, but she certainly is if she keeps crying over you!' Rufio shoved Peter back.  
  
Peter's arm dropped, the tip of his sword touching the sand. He was silent for a long time, with inclement eyes and a drawn expression. After a great pause, he looked back to Rufio with a proud chin. He said nothing.  
  
Rufio was quite ready to kill Pan. But carrying out such a gratifying act would only prove troublesome. There was only one way to deal with this boy, and Rufio accepted this fact begrudgingly. He sheathed his sword and spoke. 'Fine. If you will not go after her, I will.'  
  
'What?' Peter's expression dropped. Rufio was already marching off. This was not right at all! 'No!' shouted Peter, sheathing his blade as well. 'I will rescue her!' He leapt into the air.  
  
Rufio sighed and watched him go, then turned sharply back into the wood toward the Underground Home. Despite what Pan believed, he would need backup. 


	12. Ashes

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook. I do not have the executive right to declare war on other countries without the approval of congress. Woops.  
  
Notes: Oh my! Reviews! Man, a review is a wonderful thing. To quote Best Week Ever, "It's like candy, only more informative." So keep those coming, because they make me feel warm and slightly hyperactive.  
  
The song in this chapter is 'Gather Ye Roses While Ye May.' Barrie cited it in his notes for Peter Pan, but never used it. It was popular during the time Wendy grew up.  
  
Chapter Twelve: Ashes  
  
Wendy was quite alone. Her captor had deposited her in Hook's cabin after receiving an off-hand order from the Captain. He had taken time only to remove her gag and bid her to wait before leaving her. She heard the thud and scrape of a bar moving into place across the door, and with a cold sinking in her chest accepted that she was quite trapped.  
  
She surveyed the cabin in silence, fingertips rubbing the slightly chafed corners of her mouth absently. Wendy circled the perimeter slowly, peering at the trophies and pictures in the well-oiled wood and glass cases. Occasionally her hand would rest on an ornate piece of furniture. The air was cramped and smelled of kerosene and burning candles, and the light was the low sort that trembled up and down the walls with the rock of the boat.  
  
There were framed portraits behind the glass, all of a boy of varying age, but always with the same dark curls. Even in the dull of charcoal sketches, the eyes seemed strikingly blue. There were listings of accomplishments, too, most of them containing the words 'Eton College' in the heading. They grew distinctly sparse as the boy grew older, it seemed.  
  
For the briefest moment, she had the fleeting notion that this was not Neverland where dreams could not be summoned, but someplace else where they flourished and did not fade like the portraits on the walls. She felt that she might be able to lie down on the great bed and dream awhile, only to be woken by Michael's yells.  
  
She crossed to the harpsichord bench and sat, a hand pressed to her side. Her lungs were tight, as if she was wearing stays. Mother's lullabies were warm inside the locket. Wendy breathed a great sigh and placed her hands upon the keys, pale fingers stroking them absently.  
  
A high quavering note leapt into the air. Wendy did not realize she had pressed the key until the note was dying. Another note bloomed and withered, and then another, until one could not tell when one stopped and another began.  
  
It was a simple song, clear and soft and saccharine. It was not until Wendy sang that the notes began to ache.  
  
'Gather ye roses while ye may, old time is still a-flying.'  
  
The pirate shanties faded, and the ship ceased to rock. The light steadied.  
  
'A world where beauty fleets away is no world for denying.'  
  
The acrid smoke and pungent leather became lavender scented washing and rustling skirts.  
  
'Come lads and lasses, fall to play, lose no more time in sighing.'  
  
Michael was there, and the twins, whirling about in a game of ring around the rose-y. There was the pad of bare feet on carpet, and giggles drowning out the words.  
  
'The very flowers you pluck to-day,'  
  
Wendy closed her eyes, and there was her mother's smile. Ashes, ashes, sang Michael. Ashes, ashes, sang the twins.  
  
'To-morrow will be dying,' Wendy's voice had grown very soft.  
  
They shouted the last phrase, and then fell in a great pile of wriggling limbs and laughing eyes. Her mother's lips stilled, and then the limbs stilled and the eyes were vacant.  
  
'And all the flowers are crying,' sang Wendy.  
  
Ashes, ashes; the children were cold, her mother was cold; all turning gray like charcoal sketches.  
  
'And all the leaves have tongues to say-'  
  
Striking blue eyes; Hook's eyes, her father's eyes, her eyes. Their lights went out. And there was Peter Pan, crowing.  
  
'Gather ye roses while ye may.'  
  
The last notes faded into a velvet silence.  
  
'Beautiful, Wendy. Beautiful,' said Hook, his deep voice disembodied until he stepped from the shadows. Wendy flinched, and her hands left the keys. She had not heard him enter. Quite suddenly, the ship was swaying, the lights were flickering, and the taste of the air was caustic. Wendy stood. Hook waved his hand dismissively, and she sat slowly.  
  
'But so sad,' he continued. He no longer used the theatric sympathy that had so drawn her as a little girl, but his words were not genuine in the way he wanted them to be. Wendy was carefully stiff. 'I should think you would play happier songs here,' he finished. He remained standing, idly stroking his hook.  
  
Wendy said nothing, and Hook's expression turned apologetic. He seated himself with a practiced flick of his coat tails. 'I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, my beauty. I only wondered why you chose that song in particular.'  
  
The purred endearment did nothing to lessen Wendy's discomfort, but she hid it well. Her voice was appropriately soft, and even. 'It reminds me of,' she hesitated. She thought of home, then whispered, 'Peter.'  
  
'Pan has all the time in the world to gather roses.'  
  
'But he doesn't.'  
  
Hook frowned and looked at Wendy. Her expression had not changed. There was almost a sense of loss within the Captain, for little Wendy had clearly forgotten her way to the surface of this porcelain young woman before him. 'Whatever do you mean?' he said in a measured voice.  
  
'He only looks at them. He has never seen a rose.' Her eyes were on her hands, demure and still in her lap. 'He might have glimpsed one once, but he has forgotten.' She looked up and bravely met the Captain's eyes. 'He has handfuls of weeds, Captain. He does not know the difference.' There was hurt, somewhere, but her voice was as rigid as her posture.  
  
Hook's hand was loose on his mouth, his eyes pensive. At first his words were muted when he spoke, but then he dropped his hand. 'Everything is the same to one who does not think.' He was sealing something, he knew, something detrimental to dear Pan. One could almost think it unintentional; his tone was so sincerely grave. But even if Hook would not admit it, all of his words had their roots in Pan.  
  
He does not think. Wendy's hand was on the locket, but she did not notice.  
  
Take it back, Wendy. Now her fingertips touched the kiss. No, not a kiss, an acorn. Take it back, Wendy. Just an acorn. Her eyes fell.  
  
For the second time in one day, Wendy knew that she was breaking.  
  
Hook's hand was on his hook, and his expression was unreadable. He knew he would not be able to wipe away any tears if they fell. Something in him knotted in irritation, for dear Wendy was no longer malleable. But she had more feeling than this, he knew; it was trembling just behind her eyes. He reached to his left and poured a glass of rum, then offered it to Wendy.  
  
Wendy looked up. This was the chivalrous Hook she remembered, but his smile did not patronize, nor did it pity. She took the glass delicately, but did not drink. 'Thank you,' said propriety.  
  
He murmured a dismissal while doctoring his own drink. He held the crystal artfully in his good hand and turned back to her, his eyes still that odd, toneless blue. There was a long silence as he swirled the liquor in his glass, the aroma just reaching him when he looked back to her. 'Do you still tell your stories, Wendy?' Jas. Hook was still vain.  
  
Wendy did not answer, for at that precise moment there rang a loud, jarring crow. Despite its battered state, Wendy's heart rose. Peter Pan was calling out.  
  
'Come out, Captain Codfish!' 


	13. Leverage

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.  
  
Notes: Oh, this chapter was fun. Thank you again to the reviewers, especially Kimberly A and squeezynz. I fangirl them madly, because they write fantastic stories. But everyone else is fantastic fantastic, too.  
  
Chapter Thirteen: Leverage  
  
Hook stood, his eyes alive. One could see his fingers subtly tense around the crystal goblet.  
  
He seemed to remember himself, and turned to Wendy, setting the glass down. He was debonair again, his gestures painting eloquence, his voice yards of velvet. Wendy thought perhaps she had imagined a change in him, for now, a moment later, he was a caricature, bowing to her deeply.  
  
'I beg your pardon, my darling, but business is business.' The lure of Pan was irresistible, especially when the boy waltzed onto his ship unbidden. The Captain's oaths to ignore Pan dissipated like so much smoke. Hook exited precisely, drawing his blade.  
  
Wendy heard the bar slide back into place, but continued to stare through the door, as if it would afford her a glimpse of the happenings beyond. She was very still, the glass of liquor forgotten in her hand.  
  
The air was full of him. Hook could smell youth; through closed lips he could taste the crow and the mocking laughter that still saturated the space above him.  
  
'Codfish,' said Hook's voice.  
  
But the Captain had not spoken. He smiled, striding to the center of the deck, his hook idly running the length of his blade. The grind was distinctly sinister. It was a vintage sound, and Hook's eye flashed with delicious memory. He spoke with silken elocution. 'Your games are tiring, foolish boy.' Clearly, he thought otherwise.  
  
'To whom do you speak, Codfish? I am James Hook!' Ah, familiarity. Pan remained unseen. Hook wondered what made the exchange so fresh, for it was almost exactly like all the others.  
  
'Oh? Then what business have you with a codfish?' Leverage. He had leverage, he realized. Malleable or not, Wendy was still useful. Hook wore his devil's mouth.  
  
'To take back my ship, naturally!'  
  
'Your ship?' Hook seemed bemused, at best.  
  
'Aye! My ship!' His stolen voice was moving, and Hook searched the heavens. But Pan as Hook was speaking again. 'Whose upkeep, I am sorry to observe, has been terribly neglected!' There came a great succession of snaps, as of ropes breaking, and then a great white wave of falling fabric. Peter Pan had cut a sail from its bindings. Hook had barely registered this development when his vision was blotted out completely, movement curtailed by yards of unyielding white.  
  
Instantly, he was livid. It was awfully refreshing.  
  
Peter Pan's crow was drowned by the roar from the great pirate Captain. He thrashed beneath the weight of the sail until his hook pierced its surface, carving an exit. He reassembled his dignity, and whirled to face the boy that now hovered behind him.  
  
Even with a young man's face, Pan wore his old smirk well. Their eyes met for a moment of brimming silence.  
  
Hook cried out and dealt the first blow. Pan met it gleefully, body airborne, perpendicular to Hook's. He let the pirate force him backwards until his feet touched the mast. Hook struck at the boy's crown of tangled hair, but Pan leapt off nimbly, turning a flip over the Captain's head. 'You're out of practice!'  
  
'Out of practice!' scoffed Hook. The facts that the boy could be so tall and still move so well seemed an enormous injustice to the pirate. He thrust, and Pan parried, sword singing. 'I am merely indulging you, boy!'  
  
'Many thanks, old man!' With both hands, Pan brought his sword crashing down onto Hook's, forcing the blade to the deck and the pirate into a crouch. Pan let his sword up, blithely using Hook's head as a stepping- stone into the air. Hook bellowed.  
  
'Abominable boy!'  
  
'Clumsy Codfish!' Pan's laugh became a crow. He hovered near the mast, gloating.  
  
Hook advanced on him, not bothering to collect his pride. This was too perfect an opportunity. Before Pan had finished, Hook was upon him, forcing his sword arm down between hook and blade. With a jerk upward, Pan's sword was loosed from his hand, clattering to the deck. Hook kneed Pan in the stomach and brought a hand to his throat, forcing him to the mass with airless lungs.  
  
Peter Pan was shocked. After countless years, this was still the first display of bad form.  
  
Hook raised his steel hand to the sky, and his eyes were red. But his great cry died in his throat. A dagger cut through the air closest to his head, embedding into the mast just beside his hand. Hook spun about, ducking to collect his sword on the way.  
  
Rufio stood on the deck.  
  
Hook narrowed his eyes at the youth, and then whirled on Pan again. The boy, of course, was gone. Hook growled and turned back to Rufio, whose smile was much too subtle. He advanced on the boy, hardly noticing the Lost Boys that spilled onto the ship, nor the glimmer of Pan's fairy.  
  
'A Lost Boy?' he mused. He had never seen this one before.  
  
'Rufio,' said the boy.  
  
'Rufio,' repeated Hook, drawing out the name. He smiled his villain's smile and held his sword at the ready.  
  
Rufio nodded his head, and then struck. Hook blocked, and all the strokes after were violent ripples of clashing steel. The pirate recognized the blade with which the boy fought, despite its swiftness. He hid his surprise well, his voice nonchalant. 'You use Gregory's blade. He was a marvelous swordsman.'  
  
'I was better.'  
  
This one was almost as cocky as Pan. Hook chuckled, long and low. He arched a brow. 'But you cannot fly?' Rufio narrowed his eyes, but his retort was lost.  
  
'No! He cannot!' It was Pan's yell; the boy was diving like a hawk toward them. They drew apart, and Pan faced Rufio, his blade up. 'What are you doing here?' he hissed.  
  
Rufio's sword darted past Pan's head, blocking a blow from Hook aimed at Pan's shoulder. 'Saving your neck,' he said through clenched teeth. 'Though I can't say why I thought it might be appreciated.'  
  
Pan did not seem to hear him. 'Hook's mine,' he said, his blade between his and Rufio's faces. Rufio's blockade was slipping, and Hook's eyes were mad. He barely had any time.  
  
'What about Wendy?' he said, with pointed swiftness.  
  
'Wendy,' breathed Pan. A dim light in his mind told him that the girl had hurt him, but it winked out in the heat of heroism. He deliberated for the briefest moment, and then said haltingly. 'Fine. Hold Hook off. Get the Boys back to the boats and get out.' He spoke as if the Captain was not just behind him, attempting to slice him in half. In the next breath he was gone.  
  
'Brimstone and gall!' swore Hook. There was nothing left to look at but Rufio. He narrowed his eyes. 'You,' he spat.  
  
'Me.'  
  
The fury of Hook's next assault was terrifying, but Rufio's expression was hard. When their blades were caught, spraying sparks, Rufio shouted out, 'Tink! Tinker Bell!' The fairy was near; he could hear her miffed chiming. Her attitude on the journey over had been rather sulky. Rufio was too pressed to care. 'Get the boys to the boats. Now!' Hook was forcing him backward. Tinker Bell darted off.  
  
Hook's eyes were brilliant. The upper hand was hanging before him. It had a distinct aroma; Hook thought, something akin to blood or a fine cigar in terms of esteem. Pan's interruption was fresh in his mind, and all at once the proper words were there on his tongue.  
  
'You can't fly, Rufio,' he said, as if it were an epiphany.  
  
'I can't fly.' Rufio bit out the words.  
  
'Not even with fairy dust?'  
  
'No.'  
  
'But someone of your ego should not need it. All Pan needs are his happy thoughts.' There was the obligatory pause. Rufio's defense was failing, and Hook donned his pitying mask. 'Surely, you are not bereft of happy thoughts?'  
  
'I do not need to fly!' shouted Rufio, striking blindly. Hook smiled. With practiced grace, he brought the pommel of his sword down on Rufio's wrist, and the boy's blade clattered to the deck. Hook forced him back the remaining distance to the railing. He found Rufio's eyes.  
  
'Of course you don't.' With a great shout he struck a horizontal blow. Rufio threw himself backward to escape the brunt of it, and tumbled over the side of the ship.  
  
There was a long silence, and no splash, only a distant thunk and the wet trundling of a jarred boat. Hook's brow wilted slightly, and he resisted the temptation to peer over the side. It was not a complete failure, after all. The tip of his blade was a damp, dark red. Rufio had not escaped his strike entirely.  
  
He was just proclaiming this a gratifying victory when his hat was snatched cleanly off his head. Hook's eyes darted up.  
  
Pan was grinning beneath a hat that fit him quite well now. His sword was sheathed, and in his arms was Wendy. Hook's expression fell. Pan nodded to him, then promptly flew off, followed again by Hook's curses.  
  
Hook's voice quieted, and he surveyed the few moaning pirates the Lost Boys had felled, their blood staining the fallen sail. The blood on his blade was trivial. He turned away from the sight. With boiling insides and a furrowed brow, he bid his victory and his leverage a melancholy farewell.  
  
His harpsichord would sing intemperate songs tonight. 


	14. Agreement

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook. I do not own You Got Served, which has no relevance, but sort of makes me sad anyway.  
  
Notes: This chapter is even longer than the last one. And it's full of angst. The next one will be, too. And then will be some Hook, and then finally some long awaited Peter/Wendy. It's hardly over, though. If it gets too long, you can just yell at me. Thank you for the reviews!  
  
Chapter Fourteen: Agreement  
  
Peter landed before the Underground Home. Airborne, they had seen the Lost Boys carve a humming trail through the forest, their chatter cut off when the last one scampered behind the rolling entrance to the tree. Wendy had a private hope that they were snuggling into their beds, but it was very dim. She turned to Peter. Clearly, something had jogged his memory.  
  
He was regarding her with some distance, taking advantage of the wide brim of his stolen hat. Wendy knotted her fingers and bravely delved into the shadow.  
  
'Thank you, Peter,' she said. It came too softly.  
  
Peter shrugged, and Wendy surreptitiously wrung her hands.  
  
'Good night, Wendy,' he said, turning from her.  
  
'Peter,' whispered Wendy. At some point she had promised herself not to plead with him, she knew. Now she broke that blindly, reaching a hand out to his shoulder. He flinched away from her touch.  
  
'Good night, Wendy,' he said again. His voice was hard.  
  
'Peter, please. It is only a feather.'  
  
Peter whirled on her, and his eyes were damp and brilliant in his grim face. 'Only a feather, of course!' He stole close to her, and his fingers were around the acorn, shaking. 'And this isn't a kiss, is it Wendy? It never was a kiss.' He dropped it and backed away from her, his eyes dimming.  
  
'Peter, please.'  
  
'It's only an acorn, Wendy. An acorn button. It's never been anything else, has it?' His voice was level, but bitter. Wendy was helpless.  
  
'No Peter, it's so much more.' She would not cry again.  
  
'But the feather is only a feather,' he spat. Wendy silenced, and Peter stole into the air. She turned to the Nevertree, and did not watch him go.  
  
The air felt heavy. Or perhaps it was she who felt heavy, or some part of her, too heavy to be warmed by the sight of the Boys, all huddled dreamless in their beds. She crossed automatically to the large bed, but did not sit. It smelled of him, and a part of her would break if she slept with his scent tonight. She glanced around, and her eyes were not long in finding something.  
  
Rufio was not asleep. He was leaning against the wall of the tree, his arms around his torso. He was peering upward, seemingly inspecting the pattern of the roots while his eyes swallowed light. Wendy frowned. 'Rufio?'  
  
He didn't move. 'Go to sleep, Wendy.' He seemed to be speaking through clenched teeth. Wendy moved closer, and noticed that his shirt was ripped, and his arms were pressing hard at his skin. She reached out her white hands, but Rufio resisted. 'It's nothing I can't tend to. Go to sleep.'  
  
'Nonsense,' she shushed him, peeling his arms away. She gasped softly. It was an angry cut, wet and red, which ran the horizontal length of his abdomen. She could not judge its depth, but it still bled. Rufio sucked in a breath when the air hit the wound.  
  
'What happened?' she asked briskly, steering him with firm hands towards a place to sit down. Rufio hoped and prayed that it was not Pan's bed. Naturally, that's exactly where he ended up. He had little choice in the matter, however, and sat with a grimace, holding his arms clear of anything he might stain. If Pan so much as smelled him, he knew what happened would make this injury trivial. He answered her question belatedly.  
  
'Hook. It could have been serious, but I scooted out of the way. I fell off the side of the ship and into the Lost Boys' boat. They hardly noticed, I think.'  
  
'This isn't serious?' said Wendy, frowning deeply. She turned from him to a shirt of Ace's that she had been mending. With a silent hope that the boy would forgive her, she began to tear it into strips. 'This might hurt a bit, I apologize,' she muttered distractedly, and then began wrapping the wound. Rufio squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
She was tying knots in the bandages when he spoke again, haltingly. 'Necesito,' he muttered, and then remembered himself. 'I need-' he grit his teeth as she finished.  
  
Wendy looked up, all concern. 'What is it? What do you need?'  
  
Rufio collected himself, waiting until his vision cleared. When the pain subsided enough, he tried again. 'I need to leave.' He tried to stand, but Wendy's hand on his thigh kept him seated.  
  
'Rufio, calm down,' said Wendy firmly. She attempted to translate his expression, but it was a stab in the dark at best. 'If Peter returns, he returns. You are not moving from this bed. I will not let him hurt you,' she paused, and then finished gently. 'Besides, running from things never solves them.' She let go of him carefully.  
  
Rufio resigned, sighing. He relaxed into the bed slightly, but not enough to allow his bloodied arms to touch. Wendy must have noticed them then, for she stood and took a halved coconut from the table, filling it with water from the dripping root. She took up the remaining bit of shirt and sat beside Rufio on the bed, gingerly washing one arm, then the other.  
  
Rufio watched her with a somber mouth, his eyes best left unexplained. He watched her still when she stood, disposing of cloth and bowl. She found a clean bowl and filled it. He spoke quietly, to her back. 'He'll always be angry if you're here to be angry about.'  
  
Wendy didn't meet his gaze when she moved back to him, holding out the bowl. 'Drink,' she said. When he had taken it she sat beside him again, her hands limp in her lap, her eyes ahead. She spoke, and she felt that the voice wasn't hers. 'Are you suggesting that I leave?'  
  
Rufio drank quickly and set the cup aside. The beginning of a frown took his brow when she spoke. 'No, Wendy.' He reached out and touched her wrist. Wendy looked at him, startled. He continued, nonplussed. 'Pan wants you to stay, not me. This isn't your fault. I just can't accept him as my better. I can't be like his Lost Boys.' His hand fell away, but Wendy had shifted, facing him fully.  
  
'That's exactly what leaving would do, though, don't you see? Peter would think he had won.' Now she turned away, drawing her knees up. 'It is a game, of sorts. But I think he thinks you betrayed him, too. Not just me. I don't think he'd want to see you go, either. I think-' she faltered. Her voice had grown thick and wet, and she let herself lie down slowly, her back to Rufio. 'He feels now, and he knows he feels. But now he has to work it all out, and he doesn't know how, and he doesn't understand – oh, Peter,' she wept the last word, and continued to cry, softly.  
  
Rufio knit his brow. He looked at her with tempestuous eyes; she looked so small, curled in on herself as she was. He reached out to her spontaneously, but the comfort fell short. His hand hovered there, and he watched her hidden face while his words tried to close the gaping distance. 'Wendy, please,' he whispered. 'This can't keep happening. It's pointless, and it's all Pan's whims. He's all dreams, Wendy.'  
  
There was a silence, and Wendy no longer cried. Rufio took his hand back. She did not move, and her voice was quieter than her tears had been. 'I was only a little girl. I was only a little girl, and he was there, above me. And I didn't know what the look in his eyes was, or why he was reaching out to my lips. He got what he was reaching for, eventually, but not with his hands. And it was still gone when he came back, he still had it, and he was wearing the same look. I know what it was now, what it is. He does love.'  
  
Rufio was frozen, and he could not speak. But Wendy continued.  
  
'He always had nightmares. I held him while he slept when we were both so young. I rocked him and I cooed and I never really listened to him, I only wanted him to rest and to be happy.' Her hand was taking the bedclothes in a slow grip. 'He still has nightmares, and I still hold him. But I listen now, I can't help but listen, I don't know how not to. And he's always calling my name. It's always my name. It's like I've died. And he holds me like a vice until it's over. He never remembers when he wakes up, but sometimes you can see the fragments of the nightmares hanging in his eyes.'  
  
'Wendy,' murmured Rufio.  
  
'His eyes were all nightmares tonight.'  
  
'Wendy, you can't do this to yourself. He doesn't think, Wendy. He only takes what he wants, what makes him immediately happy. How can he love?' his voice was almost desperate.  
  
Wendy sat up suddenly and faced him. 'He's still human, Rufio. He loves, but it's strange. He can't love properly because of this place, even it if lets him grow, it doesn't let him understand. He has lived his entire life bereft of the only thing that would heal him, that would let his head catch up with the rest of him. This place is killing him.'  
  
'What are you saying, Wendy?' He was almost frightened by her.  
  
Wendy took in a great breath, but her words still shook. 'Whatever he loves leaves him. His parents loved him, and then forgot. And I love him – I love him terribly! – And I almost let him go. I almost closed the window. There was only a grain of time left for Peter Pan. I can't go back, you see. They say he takes pieces of the people he charms, but it isn't so. They take pieces of him. I cannot leave. I cannot take that last bit-' her voice broke, and her eyes were tired.  
  
'He'll only hurt you. Neverland'll poison you too, if you stay. He'll only hurt you.'  
  
Wendy was quiet for a very long time. Rufio couldn't keep himself from watching her, from seeing this unveiled Wendy. Her eyes were violently colorful now, and he finally saw the empty, quiet corner of her mouth. His hand was a fist, but he did not notice.  
  
Wendy spoke at last, hardly moving. 'Talk to him, Rufio.'  
  
'What?' Rufio hissed.  
  
'Talk to him.'  
  
'You've got to be kidding me.' He quelled the urge to laugh; it was bitter on his tongue. Wendy found his face with her eyes.  
  
'He must understand, Rufio. I cannot make him understand, I am colored by too much. But you could, you really could. He must understand that you do not care for me,' she was pleading. Rufio was dumbstruck for a moment, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.  
  
'Wendy,' he sputtered. 'Wendy, leaving would make more sense than that! Pan would gladly flay me; he won't take the time to listen. And even if he does, he won't understand!'  
  
'But you must try, Rufio! Please! We have to end this, somehow.'  
  
Rufio's jaw tensed, and he was silent for a long time, unable to look at her. Wendy watched him, reigning in her expression.  
  
At length, he spoke. 'Fine,' he said, his voice empty. And then he looked at her, eyes grave. 'But you cannot make me stay if I succeed.'  
  
Wendy's expression wilted, but she nodded, slowly. Her eyes were saying soft things, and Rufio looked away. 'Go to sleep, Wendy. I'll wait for him.'  
  
Wendy was still for a moment longer. And then she eased herself to the bed again, and Pan's scent was there. Something in her was already broken, and her precaution of earlier was void now. Sleep was long in coming.  
  
Rufio moved carefully to a vacant seat near the table. He relaxed as much of he could, heedful of the newly tended wound, and counted measured breaths, watching the door. He never looked back at Wendy. At times, he could hear her murmurs; spoken tears. He closed his ears to the sound. 


	15. Confrontation

Title: Island  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook. I do not think I should take any more breaks in this thing, as I tend to lose my train of thought.  
  
Notes: Valentine's everything ate my weekend, and most of my week. I thought I would be industrious and use my ginormous break to write. I didn't. Oops. Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who still reviews, it gives me so much encouragement!  
  
Chapter Fifteen: Confrontation  
  
'What are you doing here?' Peter Pan's voice was low.  
  
Rufio had not fallen asleep, and his eyes were opaque. His hand rested on his bound wound. A slight discoloration marred the pale fabric, but his blood had not seeped to the final layers. When at last it seemed as if he was truly seeing Pan, he regarded him for a time in silence before speaking. 'Waiting for you.'  
  
'You don't care about me,' Peter hissed.  
  
'No, I don't.'  
  
'You care about Wendy.'  
  
'Not like that.'  
  
'Liar.' Peter's hand was on his blade. Rufio rose, but did not touch his weapon. His face remained impassive.  
  
'If you must do that, don't do it in here.'  
  
An order. Peter's lips smirked awfully. With a quiet, perverse glee he disobeyed, stepping closer to Rufio and resting his blade at the side of the boy's neck, just below his jaw. 'Why not?' His eyes were emerald flames.  
  
'I don't want trouble, Pan,' said Rufio, steadily.  
  
'Afraid I'll wake Wendy? What might she do? Your Wendy?'  
  
'Your Wendy, Pan. Don't be stupid.' Rufio found himself monitoring his breath. The look in Pan's eyes was decidedly unsettling.  
  
'She'll leave, you know.'  
  
'What are you talking abou-'  
  
'Why should she stay for you? She didn't stay for me.' There was something wounded beneath the manic heat of his words. Wendy was murmuring soft, familiar things in Rufio's head, things about this boy. He spoke with the utmost caution.  
  
'She hasn't left yet.'  
  
Peter's eyes flicked downward, and then up again. The blade pressed ever so slightly against Rufio's jugular. 'She do that for you?'  
  
Rufio sucked in air through his nose, afraid to jar the blade with an easier intake of air. If he lied, Pan would know it, and he'd end up with something Wendy couldn't fix. 'Yes.'  
  
Peter Pan was silent for a long time, staring at Rufio with his mad eyes, his free hand trembling on the hilt of his dagger. Rufio met his gaze with impossible stoicism. Peter found no forgiveness in that black, and something in him snuffed out. He lowered his blade, his eyes hollow. 'She'll leave, you know.'  
  
'Pan-'  
  
His eyes darted up, hot and wet. He did yell this time, the boy Pan, the careless Pan, the motherless Pan. 'She'll leave you too!' He turned and ran from the tree, hand on his dagger, his sword forgotten.  
  
Wendy stirred, and Rufio ran after him.  
  
'Pan,' he called. It met the night carefully, and the trees were dark and silent in reply. The stars were winking out, turning their backs or falling to sleep in the predawn haze. Rufio plunged into the slumbering forest, and found that he was quite ignored by everything, Pan included. He tried again. 'Pan!'  
  
Rufio was in a clearing now, and his cry was echoing unhelpfully back at him. He searched vainly among the veiled stars and shadowed trees, yielding naught. And then he turned, and there was Pan, dagger hanging in his lax fingers. Rufio moved toward him and Peter tensed, shying back. He was muttering, and the nearer Rufio drew, the more coherent the words became.  
  
'Take her, take her, take her,' he said endlessly.  
  
'Pan, stop.'  
  
'Take her!'  
  
'She doesn't want me!' If Rufio had remembered how to swear, he would have, but it was one thing that Neverland had been able to leech away. He reached out to the boy, attempting to still him long enough to show him sense.  
  
'Of course, you know what she wants!'  
  
'Yes, I do!'  
  
'Then give it to her!'  
  
'I can't!'  
  
'You can't?' A mocking light was kindled in his eyes.  
  
'Pan,' Rufio growled.  
  
'Ha! You can't! You can't!'  
  
'Pan!' The boy continued his inane crowing, and Rufio was forced to yell over him. 'You know very well what she wants! You're the only one who can give it! Listen to me! You're a selfish fool, Pan! You're smarter than this, but you can't look past yourself for more than a second. Would you cut that – listen!'  
  
Peter's taunts were cut off promptly. The boy stood, hunched over, his arms holding his stomach. He was wheezing softly. Rufio stood before him with narrowed eyes, his shoulders rising and falling noticeably. His right hand was still balled into a fist.  
  
It took Peter Pan a long moment to realize that he had been punched, quite hard. As soon as he had gathered up the shards of his breath and his dignity, he raised his head and looked at Rufio, his brows slowly knitting above chaotic eyes. His breath grew audible, and then with a terrible roar he ran at Rufio, tackling the other boy by the middle.  
  
Rufio gave a cry of pain – he could feel the wound tear anew beneath the bandages – but his swimming vision was soon eclipsed by the clarity of adrenaline. This was a fight, and a fight with Peter Pan, no less. It did not take long for the boy to pour every ounce of negative feeling into his gripping and flailing arms; into the contempt of Pan and other things long buried.  
  
There was something of an equilibrium for a long moment, but the madness of earlier was brighter now in Peter Pan's eyes, and by this sheer force he was able to overpower the slightly larger boy. Rufio was reeling from the unforgiving contact with the earth, and Peter Pan was above him, atop him, monstrous beside a glint of steel. He pressed his dagger to Rufio's throat.  
  
'I'll kill you! I'll kill you!'  
  
Rufio believed him, and did not breathe.  
  
'I'll kill you,' it came softer, and something receded. Peter fell forward, a palm against the earth, fingers clawing. There was no force behind his dagger, but it rested still at Rufio's throat. Peter's eyes were staring, and one could not know exactly what he saw. 'I'll kill you,' he murmured. And Rufio was there, eyes full of fear and something else. Peter Pan saw him. 'Then you'll never leave.'  
  
At one point Wendy had cried out. Her frantic footsteps and her protestations were muted in the strange void of the two boys, but riotous sound came bleeding back when she tugged Peter off of Rufio. His dagger fell harmlessly, and his body crumbled into her accepting arms.  
  
Peter was quiet for a long moment, wearing the pallor of a victim of shock. Wendy rocked him mindlessly until a great tremor shook him, and with a gasping sob he began to feel again. He clung to Wendy, who moved less and cooed more, running her hands through his hair. 'I'm here Peter,' she said, over and over again.  
  
Rufio watched, his hand pressed to the soaked bandage. 'I'm – we're here. We're staying here,' he said, clearly numb. He continued, knowing his words were needless now, and that Pan probably couldn't hear them. 'I told you. She only wants you.'  
  
He knew a weight should have lifted, but it didn't. Rufio turned from them, driven back to the tree solely by the omnipresent need to leave. Once inside the hollow, he collapsed, too exhausted to feel heavy; to realize that Wendy had watched him go.  
  
Wendy was lying still in the clearing, firmly surrounded by the arms of Peter Pan, simply because he was too big to be adequately held by her. His breath was steadying against her back, and with a last waking movement he took her hand.  
  
Neverland rested, and the sun rose late that day. 


End file.
